


A New Leaf

by mutationalfalsetto



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: A Damn Garden Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Genderfluid Jean Prouvaire, M/M, Plants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 20:29:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5798866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutationalfalsetto/pseuds/mutationalfalsetto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire keeps buying flowers. Enjolras is a Plant Master. Jehan just really wants Enjolras to be less of a goober. It all works out, eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Leaf

**Author's Note:**

> Based (SO LOOSELY) on the Tumblr Prompt:  
> "As their New Year’s resolution, Character A is trying to kick their addiction – to substances, adrenaline, shopping, crime, ect. – and every time they feel the need to indulge again, Character A goes out and buys a house plant. Soon Character A’s apartment is filled with plants and they’ve become close friends with Character B, the gardener who has been selling Character A plants and giving them tips on how to take care of the different types."

The extent of Enjolras’ plant knowledge is this: water goes into the soil, the plant lives. Maybe. If he’s lucky.

A poor knowledge base, yet he still finds himself carefully tying the bow on the back of his dark green apron, surrounded by the thick scent of flowers and earth. The air is humid. Jehan, precious woodland sprite that they are, has probably worked some secret magic to get him this job and he’s determined not to fuck it up.

Which might be why he’s manning the register. Lack of plant knowledge and all that.

 

* * *

 

They should have just closed up shop. It’s cold, it’s snowing, Enjolras is pretty sure his car, as environmentally-friendly as it is, is _not made for winter_ , and they haven’t had a customer in over 4 hours. The clock ticks. The soothing music plays from hidden, rock-shaped speakers. The small, decorative waterfalls gurgle invitingly. Enjolras would be falling asleep if it wasn’t for the—

“Can you make a recommendation?”

He absolutely doesn’t jump. Just like he doesn’t hit his elbow on the register. Or swear. Or—

The customer in front of him frowns, adjusts his coat. Appears to be sweating. Clears his throat and tries again. “Can you recommend a plant? A good one. That won’t, y’know,” he makes a vague hand motion at the fragile life surrounding them, “die. Soon.”

Enjolras, still massaging his elbow, looks around with what he hopes is a thoughtful expression. Not lost. Not confused. He is a Plant Expert who works in a garden store. A Master of Plants.

Which is ridiculous and unfair, if you ask him. He’s delivered speeches that inspired change within his—admittedly small—community. He can talk at length about the injustices plaguing modern society. He writes speeches in his free time, for fucks sake, and he can’t talk about _plants_.

And really, where is Jehan when Enjolras needs them.

He still hasn’t responded and the customer, who appears to be rethinking his choices, is still in front of him. He’s got an iron grip on the counter, and keeps glancing over his shoulder as if planning an elaborate escape.

“I’m just not, uh, good at plants,” the customer continues, as if more information will help the absolute _blank_ that Enjolras is drawing in his mind. “I had a goldfish once! Not… like a plant. But it uh. Died. I think.”

He takes a deep breath. Enjolras runs through his truly encyclopedic knowledge of all things plant-based. Tofu. Moss. Spinach. A cactus.

And there it is, the life preserver. Sweet victory.

Which is why, in the middle of the customer’s attempts to elaborate on the differences between a goldfish and a plant—perhaps because he thinks he’s offended this Plant Expert—he spits out “ _get a cactus_ ”.

Silence.

The customer blinks.

Enjolras prepares an elaborate apology alongside a letter of resignation because truly his Plant Expertise needs to be called into question. Who the hell hired him?

Jehan. Right.

“—exactly what I’m looking for, you can’t kill them too easily. Or. I can’t. Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe a tiny one. Just to start. Where can I find them?”

The customer is looking at him expectantly. Enjolras takes a moment to pat himself on the back for his truly stellar customer service skills before he leads the other man over to the display of cacti. As he leaves, he makes the mistake of calling over his shoulder.

“If you need anything else, just ask!”  
  


* * *

  
The next time he sees The Customer, the weather has improved. The sun is out, the snow is beginning to melt into attractive patches of grey slush, and old women have begun to poke their heads out of their respective burrows in search of Spring Foliage.

And Enjolras, despite his best efforts, is still working at the garden store.

Whenever he tells Jehan about his truly abysmal plant knowledge, the other—his manager now, for chrissake—just smiles gently and pats him on the shoulder. “It’ll come,” they soothe, as if Enjolras is not _the_ definition of a lost cause, “you’re just a late bloomer.”

Jehan’s peals of laughter follow Enjolras up to the register. What did he do to deserve this pun-filled hell?

“Good morning to you, too!”

Enjolras  _does not_ have a heart attack.

The Customer grins at him, although the smile looks more like a grimace. Like he practiced it in the mirror and still couldn’t get it right.

“ _WHAT Can_ I do for you?” Enjolras regains control of his vocal chords just in time. Close to just in time. Maybe a little late.

The Customer might be laughing at him.

“Well,” he leans in to look at his name tag, “Enjolras. You gave me such a good suggestion last time I came in that I thought you might be able to help me again.”

Definitely laughing at him, then. Enjolras’ definition of ‘helping’ included a lot of things, but that particular interaction was not one of them. He bristles.

“My manager knows more than I do,” he says, using his best Customer Service Voice, “I could have them speak to you about a recommendation.”

The Customer’s grin falters. An elderly woman balancing 3 pots of A Flower Enjolras Does Not Know The Name Of sighs loudly behind them.

“Don’t worry about it.”

When The Customer approaches the counter again, he has a single tulip in a polka dot pot. He handles it apprehensively, as if afraid it will die before he makes it home. Enjolras notes, with some confusion, the way The Customer’s hands tremble, the slightly soggy quality of the money he counts out.

Enjolras thanks him for his purchase, slips a Tulip Care pamphlet into the box as an apology.

 

* * *

 

A second cactus.

A sunflower.

A plant that looks like it should be hanging off a fish in the dark recesses of the ocean.

A succulent.

A bonsai tree.

Enjolras sees The Customer more over the course of a month than he does any other patron. He doesn’t think anything of it until Jehan starts referring to him by name. “Grantaire” this, and “Grantaire” that. His plant selection branches out, courtesy of their recommendations.

“Starting a garden?” Enjolras asks as he keys in the price of a fern.

The smile is genuine. “Sort of.”  
  


* * *

 

Seeds. Pots. Soil. A watering can with a little parade of elephants on the side.

“Enjolras!” The joviality is new, although not unwelcome. Enjolras feels himself smiling, gives a little wave.

He’s not blushing, though, that’s just ridiculous.

As he rings up the items, he inspects each one. “How do you have room for all these?”

Grantaire throws a pair of bright green, floral gardening gloves on top of his pile as a response. “I’m stocking up,” he states, eyeing a sunhat that is _clearly too small_ with alarming consideration.

“Are you expecting a flower shortage anytime soon?”

Enjolras: King of Banter.

The other man pauses, child-sized sunhat now in his hand. If he puts it on his head, Enjolras will perish.

“You never can be too careful.”

Enjolras: Perishing.

* * *

A philodendron.

A hen and chicks plant.

A peace lily.

Grantaire’s visits grow infrequent, he comes in looking anxious, and the smiles he gives Enjolras are strained. There’s a tension about him, like he’s wound so tight that the slightest change in pressure will send him snapping in two. Enjolras wants to ask if he’s alright. Doesn’t want to overstep his boundaries.

“Jehan has some… some good recommendations,” he says, by way of greeting.

“I told you they know their stuff,” Enjolras replies easily, waiting for Grantaire to set the peace lily on the counter. He holds it close to his chest, nods.

“More… adventurous… than your cactus, though.” His words feel stilted, the prosody is wrong and he looks confused even as he says it. “I’m always afraid I’ll, y’know.” And Enjolras is reminded again of his vague hand gesture from their first meeting.

Enjolras keys in the price, offers him what he hopes is a kind smile. “I think you’re doing fine.”

 

* * *

 

Jehan shoves the rest of their ice cream sandwich into their mouth. “You’re pining,” they say as chocolate and melted ice cream dribbles down their chin. An ethereal being, that Jehan. 

Enjolras scoffs. “It’s not _pining_ , I’m just _concerned_.”

They nod sympathetically. “So concerned you give yourself whiplash every time someone comes in the door.” They have chocolate all over their face. Enjolras doesn’t tell them out of spite.

“I do _not_.”

Jehan raises their voice several octaves, swooning and nearly toppling off the pile of packaged mulch they’re sitting on. “ _When will my Grantaire return from war?_ “

Enjolras, Master Orator, gives him the finger.

 

* * *

 

The next time Grantaire comes in, Enjolras is in a heated debate with an elderly woman over her attempted use of expired coupons. She slams her small fists down on the counter, snarling about her discounted rhododendrons. Enjolras, not for the first time, considers a career change.

He’s still fuming over it when someone places a pot on the counter.

“So, I heard you were having a sale." 

Enjolras, to his credit, does not nearly lose his shit as much as he could have. The look he gives Grantaire, however, is positively _withering_ , and such a look is clearly in need of an equally scathing reply.

“It’s a sale on _shut the fuck up_ , what about it?”

His words hit him and he yearns for death. He is a master of words. Truly killing it.

Grantaire snorts. “Well with a sales pitch like that, how can I resist?”

The entire transaction is completed with horrified silence on Enjolras’ part. Jehan laughs at him from the back as the bell rings, signaling Grantaire’s departure.

 

* * *

 

“Why do you buy so many plants?”

The question was not meant to be spoken out loud. When Grantaire turns from the display of geraniums to look in his direction, however, Enjolras realizes that there was a slight miscalculation.

“Is it a problem?” Grantaire sounds almost defensive, crossing his arms over his chest and turning fully to face Enjolras. “I didn’t realize you were keeping track.”

Enjolras clears his throat, wishes desperately for a time machine. “You’re just… in here a lot… is all.”

O, that the floor would swallow him.

Grantaire is silent for a moment, turning back to the geraniums. Enjolras wonders if their conversation is over, and breathes a sigh of relief. 

“Maybe I’m just trying something new.”

He leaves without buying anything.

* * *

 

The next few times Grantaire visits, he does all of his transactions with Jehan. Enjolras thinks about apologizing every time he sees him, but the words die in his throat.

Jehan frowns at him as they relinquish the cash register after one such transaction.

“What?” Enjolras snaps, followed by a quick apology. It’s not their fault he’s in this predicament. 

A raised eyebrow.

Then: “I’m handling it.”

Jehan doesn’t say anything, merely gives him a meaningful look as he wanders to the back.

Enjolras resists the urge to slam his head on the counter as the first strains of Billie Holiday’s “Blue Moon” begin to play over the speakers.  
  


* * *

 

  
“I’m sorry.”

Grantaire nearly drops the Chinese evergreen. In retrospect, perhaps Enjolras shouldn’t have snuck up on him. Ah, regret.

As the other man fumbles to recover the plant, Enjolras takes a moment to collect himself. Or ogle Grantaire. One of the two.

“It’s, uh… it’s fine. Thanks.” He looks uncomfortable, although the Chinese evergreen is nearly obscuring his face. Maybe Enjolras is projecting. The humidity in the store seems to have increased by 20 percent in the past five minutes.

He’s staring.

He’s still staring.

Grantaire slowly raises an eyebrow.

Enjolras makes his way calmly back to the register. Maybe a little less than 'calmly'. Perhaps he scurried. But just a little. When it’s time to ring up Grantaire's purchase, he makes small talk to the point where every word that comes out of his mouth makes him feel like crying. _The weather_ , for fuck’s sake. He’s talking about _the weather_.

The transaction completed, Enjolras wonders if now is a good time to throw himself into the sun.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras is well aware that he’s staring. He’s aware of the silence that’s been stretching out for what feels like an eternity but in reality has probably only been about thirty seconds. 

Just like he’s aware that the person on the other side of the counter looks confused, bordering on anxious.

The silence is, perhaps, getting to be excessive. Enjolras would agree, if he was sure he could manage more than a series of shrill squeals.

Master Orater, indeed.

Grantaire leans forward hesitantly, jabs him lightly in the shoulder with two fingers. “Enjolras? I said, ‘do you want to grab coffee sometime’?” He’s waiting on an answer. This is absurd. Enjolras wills his brain to interact with the rest of his body, wills it to produce more than the (early) celebratory alarms going off in his head.

“Enjolras?”

He nods.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've written that doesn't end in/involve/briefly reference bloodshed (and my first Les Mis fic as a whole), so please let me know if it's actually Not A Thing People Should Read.


End file.
